


Always a King

by Deepdarkwaters



Category: Alice In Wonderland - Lewis Carroll, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:49:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were wars the Pevensies fought in Narnia, and one in England that they couldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always a King

**Author's Note:**

> Written for rthstewart in narniaexchange 2013.

**The Battle of Britain, 1940**

They returned to an England full of closed doors, disapproving looks, endless rain, and a war they had no part in. This last seemed to bother Edmund most of all, and he spent the next day in glum silence with the wireless tuned to the crackling voices bringing news from the continent and the ravaged streets of London.

"It seems like _cheating_ somehow," he burst out eventually, and the others looked at him from their places around the room: Peter holding a history book open although he hadn't turned a page in hours, Susan writing a letter home, Lucy in the window-seat with her knees hugged close to her chest and her forehead resting on the cool glass, silent and motionless.

"What does?" Susan asked. "The war?"

"Of course the war. Machines and... throwing great bombs down on people's heads so they've no chance of defending themselves."

"Is it better to run someone through with your sword and have them die at your feet?"

"It's more fair that way, surely."

"I'm not sure war is fair at all, no matter how it's done." But she spoke slowly, lingering over the words as though translating from some half-forgotten language - as though she knew Edmund would give that scornful laugh of his even before he made a sound.

"Says the best archer in Narnia. You were almost a sniper by the end, weren't you? Even if you wouldn't get your hands dirty on the battlefield like the rest of us."

"Don't," Lucy said suddenly in a voice that was thick and hoarse with held-back tears, and she ran from the room. Susan would have followed with scant, clumsy words of comfort, only Peter put a hand on her wrist to stop her.

"Leave her be, Su. Goodness knows I feel like running off for a good bawl myself."

She settled back in her seat, feeling much the same way. "What are we to do, then? Just go along as though nothing ever happened and hope we start to feel better someday?"

"Well," Peter said as he closed the unread book with a dusty bang, "I suppose the first thing we ought to do is go and apologise to the Professor for losing four of his coats somewhere behind the wardrobe."

 

**The War of the Roses, 1009**

The Narnian army rode hard towards battle, beyond the Western Woods and to the place where the mountains began to raise up to the sky. In the midst of the first skirmish King Peter found himself as always remembering his instructor's lessons, the dodges and feints in defence and the ferocious attack of strength whenever he saw a way through the glinting swing of enemy steel. His muscles knew the movements the way his lungs knew how to breathe and his heart knew how to beat; the heft of a sword felt like an extension of a limb now, not a thing to be picked up and used as a tool, to be swung blindly and wildly around so that victory came as a result of luck and Aslan's grace, not the King's own skill. He could barely remember those old days, the battles they had fought as frightened children; now, with his soldiers' cry of _Narnia_ ringing in his ears, he led them into the fray with no fear, for he believed with every bit of him that they couldn't lose, that no matter the strength of the enemy it was Narnia who had Aslan on her side.

But moments into the battle he knew something was strange. The resistance of snarling enemy bodies against the blade of his sword was different; in fact it was barely there at all. The air around him was filled with flying scraps of white, and beneath his horse's hooves came the cloying stench of a million crushed roses. Down the line of soldiers he saw Edmund, and beyond him Lucy, brows furrowed in confusion beneath the rims of their helmets even as they lunged and sliced and sent more of those white slivers flying through the air like... like...

( _paper planes_ was in his head, but what was a paper plane?)

"Why, they're nothing but a pack of cards!" he murmured to himself as the realisation struck, bringing with it a momentary falter until an enemy sword was blocked by his neighbour only inches from his neck. The King rose in his stirrups and charged on, now using the painted diamonds and hearts and spades and clubs as targets to rip the attacking troops to confetti as their queen howled for his head from the back of their lines.

 

**Rohirric ambassador, 1004**

In times of peace - of which there were many, thankfully, long stretches of years where nothing that happened in Narnia was more violent than a thrown punch between friends or brothers after one wineskin too many - it was almost more difficult to find your place, or at least it felt that way to Lucy. Susan was older, graceful, beautiful, clever with words and able to say things in such a way that people who held power in other lands never realised they were giving away secrets or making extravagant promises in Narnia's favour until after the fact - and even then the young Queen's smile was so open and sweet that they somehow felt as if they'd come away with the better side of the deal. Queen Lucy was a favourite of the people, the talking animals and the fauns and dryads and Father Christmas, but aged only twelve the intricacies of court always seemed to be held too high above her head by her siblings where she could never reach to study them.

She always thought later how lucky she was that the first time she had to receive a foreign ambassador by herself, when Susan and Peter were away in the north and Edmund was in bed with a fever, it was such a lovely one.

"Eowyn of Rohan, Your Majesty," said the little faun who led the ambassador in, sounding as nervous with his first taste of palace responsibility as Lucy was with hers. She tried to remember everything Susan had instructed - _don't twist your fingers in your gown to stop them trembling, don't smile like a clown and frighten the poor people off, and for Aslan's sake, Lucy, don't chew the ends of your hair_ \- but she was too startled to stop the first thing that came into her head from tumbling out of her mouth.

"You're a lady!"

The ambassador laughed - it was bright and beautiful, and Lucy liked her instantly - and gave a little bow.

"So are you, I think, Queen Lucy of Narnia."

Put at ease by the laughter, the glimmering kindness and amusement in Eowyn's grey eyes, the way she was dressed like a man in riding boots and trousers and a dusty kidskin tunic, Lucy abandoned her ceremonial crown and the echoing emptiness of the throne room, dismissed her advisers, and led her visitor instead to a parlour in the tower nearest the sea where they could sit by the fire and watch the mermaids through the leadlight windows. As the sun sailed across the sky and the afternoon faded into evening, they forgot all about the planned horse trade talks and instead each found an unexpected friend - two young women who despised girdles and silk slippers, who had ridden valiantly to war alongside their brothers, who had so many wonderful and terrible stories to tell about the magic rings that had shaped the history of their lands.

 

**The Giants' Retreat, 1014**

Susan was taking her customary early morning walk when she heard the crunching footsteps on the pebbled path down from the cliffs, but she didn't turn yet, not until Peter's hand was on her shoulder.

"I was afraid I might startle you," he said but she smiled and kissed his cheek in greeting, feeling the prickle of black beard and the curve of a smile under her lips.

"I know your step as well as my own, brother. Welcome home. I trust all is settled in the north?"

The waves lapped at their feet as they wandered along the shoreline, following the pale curve of diamond sand that stretched away from Cair Paravel and around the headland. Peter was silent, deep in thought, until finally he sighed deeply and said, "Yes, for now, although I confess I am troubled." He was rubbing his beard slowly with his palm, a strange and unfamiliar gesture that he only did when he was tired or overwhelmed and trying not to show it. "The exodus of giants to our northern lands is stained with a magic Narnia has not felt these many years."

His words sent a shuddering thrill down Susan's spine, dread and memories and a faint spark of some absurd, improper excitement. "Do you fear an alliance with the northern witches?"

"The witches are divided. There are many who fought alongside Narnia - to make amends, they said, for their sister Jadis' treachery."

"And the rest?"

"The rest I saw casting dark and terrible hexes upon any person who refused to join them using sticks of wood stolen from our dryads, and every death was accompanied by a gloating face in the sky to mark the deed, a great glowing skull entwined with a serpent."

Susan felt her grip upon Peter's arm grow momentarily tighter, and she made an effort to relax her fingers. The tale of the lost and found prince of Archenland that she had been so keen to recount for Peter suddenly seemed so far away, like an unimportant footnote or a bedtime story from a time long past. War was a thing they had become accustomed to, a necessary evil to protect their people on the rare occasions that diplomacy failed or attacks came without warning, but Dark Magic was a threat much greater than swords and impossible to defend against with shields, and it frightened her in some deep, sickening way that she had not felt since the cracking of the Stone Table so many years ago.

"I thank Aslan that you have returned safely to us," was what she said, a simple statement of gratitude and relief, but her heart seemed to pulse painfully in her breast and she was glad of the pink dawn and the warmth of the morning, the sunlight sparkling on the cresting waves and the birdsong in the distant trees. If the news had come in winter, when the sky and ground alike were white with snow, the trepidation and the memories would have been almost too difficult to bear. "Will you allow me to call a war council to discuss our next move?"

"Gramercy, lady," Peter said, kissing Susan's hand where the fine filigree bands of dwarf-worked silver twined around her fingers, and she watched him stride back across the sands towards Cair Paravel: back straight, head high, he looked as though he could stand beside any giant and still seem more than they.

 

**The Battle of Britain, 1940**

Later in bed, Edmund lay on his back for what seemed like an age. A discordant clock chimed somewhere in the old house, twelve o'clock and then one and still sleep wouldn't come. He could hear Peter breathing and knew he was awake too, but every time he tried to say something he thought better of it and shut his mouth again - because they weren't friends in this time, in this world, and nothing was the same as yesterday. The memories of Narnia were still so clear in his head, as bright and fantastical as colour plates in a book: learning with Peter how to fight and ride and talk like a king; the confusion on Peter's face the first time he had to put on a pair of hose and the way it had made Edmund laugh until the tears stung his eyes; the way they hadn't felt like brothers before, not really, not until after the Witch. After Aslan.

"Peter?" he said quickly before his brain could talk him out of it again.

The reply came at once. "I knew you weren't asleep."

"Do you miss it?"

"What a stupid question."

"Sorry." Silence for a while. Then: "Peter?"

"Yes?"

"Nothing."

"What's wrong?"

 _Everything_. "I can't help thinking," Edmund said slowly, stumbling a bit over his words; sincerity was an easy thing for King Edmund the Just, Duke of Lantern Waste, Count of the Western March, and Knight of the Noble Order of the Table, but somehow felt clumsy in the mouth of sullen, spiteful little Edmund Pevensie.

"Thinking what, Ed?"

"Well, I mean... missing Narnia is all well and good, and I do, but it feels like more than that. For me, I mean. That we're back here in England and soon we'll go back to school and everybody there thinks I'm awful and I'm not. I'm not any more. You know that, don't you?"

"Ed-"

"And they won't give me a chance to prove it because I've been so awful for so long they've all given up trying. I'll go back to school and-"

"Ed, listen. They'll only have to look at you to see that you're different. It's written all over your face. Perhaps they won't understand it, they won't see there's magic and courage and fifteen years of learning there, but they'll see _something_ there. I promise you they will."

"Oh."

"I suppose you did change the most out of all of us."

"All that rot about growing hair in odd places and that awful squeaky thing with my voice, though, I'm certainly not looking forward to going through _that_ again."

In the darkness he heard Peter's muffled laugh, and Edmund felt himself smiling too when only hours before he had been convinced he would never smile again.

"Don't forget, there are other things you'll get to do for the first time again too..."

"Peter! I'm ten!"

"Yesterday you were twenty-five, and don't tell me all those meetings with the naiads were diplomatic."

There was no reply he could think of for that so he said nothing, trying to be dignified but really just embarrassed. They lay in silence for so long that Edmund thought Peter must have fallen asleep, but just as he was finally beginning to feel drowsy himself he heard his brother's voice again through the darkness.

"The Professor said 'Once a King in Narnia, always a King in Narnia'. Let's try to remember that, whatever else we might forget."

Edmund, in his sleepiness, didn't feel surprised until the next morning that the Professor seemed to know about the world in the wardrobe - but something about Peter's words must have lodged in his mind because he dreamed that night of fauns and centaurs, velvet cloaks and ruby crowns, the winding curve of a turret staircase, rays of warm golden light breaking through clouds like heralds of hope from the East, and he awoke in the morning with a heart that felt like it could fly.

"Not being able to see Narnia doesn't mean it's not there," he said to Lucy, squeezing into the window-seat beside her after breakfast and holding her hand awkwardly because, in this world, affection was apparently something he would have to relearn. "Just like how all those days and years we never saw Aslan didn't mean he'd gone very far away. It's around a corner somewhere, or through another door we haven't found yet."

Already the memories of their other life seemed to be dulling slightly for him, like the colours in a hung picture that gets too much sunlight - but the fierceness in his heart was as steady and strong as ever and when Lucy gave him a tearful smile and put her arms around him he felt as though the best of Narnia had followed them back through the wardrobe anyway.


End file.
